


Of Banquets and Destinies

by callmenewbie



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Deal With It, Destiny is a Bitch, Jaskier is a noble and he doesn't like it, M/M, Yennefer and Jaskier are friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23266564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmenewbie/pseuds/callmenewbie
Summary: It was not a surprise that after spending two decades by his side he’s left, especially considering the way Geralt has sent him away. And although he did miss the bard and he was miserable with guilt, he thought that it was for the best. It was safer.So why the fuck was is then, that Destiny wouldn’t stop shoving signs in his face, that were screaming Jaskier’s name (on one occasion literally screaming as some moronic townsfolk mistaken the obviously less skilled bard for him, who was trying to perform one of his famous songs)?OrDestiny would not leave Geralt alone, until he finds his way back to his bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 397
Collections: The Witcher





	Of Banquets and Destinies

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo. I started to write an other geraskier fic and before I could finish that one my brain went "but what if..." and I wrote this one. As per usual I lost control over the story and what I planned to be a 2500 word count, turned into this 5400 monstrosity. I couldn’t help it, I love these idiots so much, I just can’t get enough of them.  
> So without any more preamble; hope you'll enjoy reading this.

There was a storm roaring for days now, ever since Geralt left that damned mountain. It was just as well, he wasn’t really in a sunshine sort of mood anyways.

But it did make travelling significantly harder. Roach’s hooves were keep getting stuck in the mud and all of his clothes were soaked through days ago, not having any opportunity to dry. It was cold and windy and having a distempered horse for a companion did not help the matter at all.

When he reached the closest town, he went straight to the inn, tied Roach into the warm and dry stables, where she could nibble on some hay, while he talked to the innkeeper and paid for a room. They didn’t look at him with fear, nor disgust and it seemed slightly unusual, as it only ever happened, when Jaskier was around. Which was clearly not the case.

He spent an hour to clean Roach and pet her dry, before he returned to his room, he didn’t have enough coin to order a bath, but at least he could shed his wet clothes and lay them out near the fire, where they could dry up until the morning came.

That was when it started; the next morning. He didn’t know that just yet, but in hindsight it was clearly the first sign.

When he went down in the morning, he paid the barmaid for a mug of ale in lieu of breakfast. She nodded and when she returned to him, she was humming a very familiar tune. Now, one can say Geralt was not an expert in music, and one would be right. Unless it came to a certain bard’s songs. Those, he could pick out anytime, even out of hundreds of other songs.

He drained down the ale and set towards the next town, that ought to have some sort of contract for him; as far as he remembered it was surrounded by dark woods and nasty creatures, who liked to venture into town time to time.

*

On nights he spent camping in the woods, he remembered Jaskier’s chattering teeth in the cold, the way he put his bedroll as near as possible to the fire and the way Geralt always set it up to make sure it can burn for hours more, to keep him warm.

On nights, that he spent in inns he remembered the insufferable bard coming upstairs drunk, or on occasions when they shared a bed, how he’d be taking up the smallest possible place, consciously positioning himself; until he’d fall asleep and then stretch out, like a spider, his limbs pointing towards impossible directions, nearly pushing him off the bed. How Geralt has learned to lay behind the bard and turn him on his side, holding Jaskier there with his own body; in those cases neither of them moved much until morning came.

When he took a bath, he remembered how the bard’s skilled fingers washed his hair and scrubbed his shoulders, carefully massaging oils into his scalp and skin.

There wasn’t much running away from it, wherever he went he found something that reminded him of the bard, who he chased away months ago.

Sometimes when he was passing through a bigger city’s market, he’d caught a whiff of a flowery scent, eerily similar to the one Jaskier used to use on himself, making him smell fresher than he actually was after weeks of travelling through woods and small shithole towns. When that happened he always involuntarily stopped, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to conjure the memory of Jaskier’s face in his mind, before moving on.

Other times when he fought monsters, breaking into his camp, there was a few seconds worth of fog setting on his brain, where his only thought was ‘where’s Jaskier?’, wanting to defend him, even though he was long gone.

After a while, even without any sort of prompting or sign, he just thought about the bard. He could’ve stopped those thoughts, if he really wanted to. But, he didn’t.

There was some sort of salvation imagining the bard, smiling, singing, rambling, whining or complaining. Things that he thought he never could miss. And yet.

Jaskier loved a lot of things and a lot of people, trying to engage in fun and satisfying activities most of times. Which Geralt thought was fair, seeing that his life was much shorter, being an average human, that is. It was not a surprise that after spending two decades by his side he’s left, especially considering the way Geralt has sent him away. And although he did miss the bard and he was miserable with guilt, he thought that it was for the best. It was safer.

So why the fuck was is then, that Destiny wouldn’t stop shoving signs in his face, that were screaming Jaskier’s name (on one occasion literally screaming as some moronic townsfolk mistaken the obviously less skilled bard for him, who was trying to perform one of his famous songs)?

This was mainly the reason, why upon reaching a remarkably beautiful clearing towards his next destination it only made him curse in irritation.

The field was covered with buttercups, making the huge surface looking like a sea made of gold. The scent of it was overwhelming, so much so that he couldn’t smell anything else at all. For humans it might be only a mild sweet scent lingering around, but for his sensitive smelling abilities it was a threat.

Buttercups. Wasn’t that just fucking ironic?

Well, Destiny – however sour it was – seemed to have a sense of humour.

The only thing that was missing by now, the bard himself to show up. He was really hoping it wouldn’t come to that, as he put obvious effort into avoiding him. But such luck was not on his side today.

As he stood there, watching the field full of flowers and slowly regaining his contentment, suddenly there was a wave of air and then a portal opened in the middle of it. Jaskier literally fell out of it face first into the yellow flowers, making him sneeze; in quick succession appeared Yennefer behind him, falling on his back as the portal closed.

“What the fuck.”

But as soon as they appeared another portal has opened and Yennefer yanked the bard through it, before Geralt could even get noticed. He couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or a very unfortunate one. He carried on his way towards the next city, in a significantly sour mood.

*

Geralt tried to avoid having business in Lettenhove, in any court really. There were more nobles there than not, self-indulged bunch the lot of them. But his road took him up close and a merchant on his way pointed into the direction of the Earl’s court, as he was trying to get rid of some nasty drowners in his private woods. He was not in a good mood by a long shot and chasing monsters in near wintertime didn’t sound too enticing, on the other hand a good set of coin, hot food and a steaming bath left no way for refusal.

The Earl himself was a short, chubby man, who treated Geralt better than most of the people who hired him, or just the most of the people in general. He said he’d heard a lot of good about him and since he helped him clear off his monsters he was infinitely grateful. So when he carried out the contract without any problems or serious injuries, he got his reward; he finally could take a bath, hot enough to burn and have a room for ‘as long as he wished’, as the Earl himself have paid for his accommodation at the local inn, on the top of the nice bag of coin he gave Geralt.

Well, that sort of offer did not stand often for him, however he did not wish to stay long, this whole courtly fake ass-kissing, that most nobles were so fond of made him want to run into the nearest forest only after a couple of hours. But Roach deserved some rest, so he decided to stay two more days; then turn towards Kaer Morhen for the winter, to visit Ciri and see how she’s getting along with her training.

What he did not expect was however that walking through Lettenhove’s narrow streets, he would hear a familiar tune carried by an even more familiar voice.

“Fuck.” He murmured and looked up.

Jaskier was sitting on the top of a wall nearby, singing to himself. Geralt wanted to go there. Wanted to talk to him, but he felt frozen in place. His legs felt numb, so did his mouth.

So he could only watch, as he slipped down on the other side of the wall, without ever noticing the witcher and disappeared from his view, carrying his melancholic tune away with himself.

*

The next day he was readying Roach to continue their journey, when one of the Earl’s errand boys appeared beside him at the stables and delivered him the message, that he is more than welcome in a banquet, organised at the very same night at the Viscount’s own property.

This was not even remotely something that he’d consider under normal circumstances. But the sight of Jaskier sitting atop that wall flashed through his mind and knowing the bard, he would be attending, if he was around. Since he was a rather picked-up bard, loved by many, also he was fond of that sort of courtly peacocking.

So he said yes and asked for directions for the property.

*

He did not prepare anything to say to the bard upon meeting him, which might prove to be a mistake, although there was no guarantee that the bard would actually attend, or that if he could get a chance to talk to him, let alone if Jaskier would even want his presence.

The property itself was huge, but the residence would be hard to miss. Long fields covered in snow stretched across his sight and a row of naked trees led up to a fairly impressive building.

He was almost sure he’d see Jaskier at the banquet, what he didn’t expect was that as soon as he walked past through the entrance, after the few maids tending to the furniture in the landing area the first person he’d bump into would be Jaskier. Geralt knew now that there were no coincidences, he also knew, that Destiny stopped pushing signs towards him to find the bard and giving him the actual meeting – on its own terms, as always. Although he didn’t feel like he was ready for it.

Jaskier was standing on top of the first staircase and looking down at him with a slight shock on his face and Geralt could tell, that he looked stressed; the skin under his eyes was darker than normally and his lips wore the tell-tale sign of small, already scabbed scars; the results of his aggressive lip biting. He wasn’t even properly dressed, as he was only wearing his trousers and a pale undershirt, walking around barefoot.

For a second Geralt thought he’s going to turn around and leave him standing by the bottom of the stairs, but then he made an irritated gesture upwards and the witcher followed silently, feeling like there was a magic pull attached to Jaskier that he couldn’t shake off.

After two turns of steps and a long, silent hallway, Geralt found himself standing in what looked like Jaskier’s personal quarters. If the bard’s many belongings scattered over the bed and the dresser were any indication.

Apparently he wasn’t fully dressed, because he was in the middle of getting ready for the banquet. Neither of them have said anything ever since Geralt walked in, so he just stood in the middle of the room, as Jaskier fussed with his hair in front of the mirror, wearing a positively strained expression. He reached for a small phial on the top of his dresser and uncorked it.

Jaskier dropped one single drop of oil on his right wrist, then rubbed it against his left, then both of his wrists on the two sides of his neck. Geralt watched mesmerised and took a deep breath as the scented oil filled his lungs; elderflower and rose. It must have been a very pricy oil as these flowers were not in season and its smell was fairly potent for one drop only.

He pulled the top of his shiny, peacock blue doublet over his pale undershirt and buttoned it up. Geralt couldn’t really say anything. He was drinking in the sight of the bard, who he hasn’t seen in such a long time (not counting the incident on the field, where he really only had seconds before Jaskier disappeared from his eyes, which was also the case in the city just the day before) and just standing here with him made his mind fuzzy with overwhelming thoughts and left it empty at the same time.

Jaskier sighed loudly and pulled his face up in an unhappy scrunch.

“If you’re just going to stand there, might as well help. Here.”

He handed him a necklace that held a little silver flower medallion with a tiny blue stone in the middle of it; it was clearly kept in great condition, as it hasn’t got any scratches, neither did its shine dull over time. It was also awfully familiar, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. He wanted to ask about it desperately. He didn’t. Although he did feel a dull pain behind his ribs; whoever gifted him this precious piece of jewellery must be someone important to Jaskier.

Geralt positioned himself behind Jaskier and placed the necklace on his chest from the back, pulling it upwards, as he clipped it together behind the bard’s neck, carefully avoiding to pull his hair. He didn’t know what to do with his hands after, so he just let them fall on the bard’s shoulders. He looked up and his gaze met with Jaskier’s in the mirror. The bard was clearly tense and Geralt was sure he could smell disappointment and a bit of sour sadness on him.

But he just didn’t know what to do. He was never good at apologies or emotions in general.

“Jaskier…”

He sighed again and up this close he could feel the bard’s body sagging a little with his breath.

“Not now, Geralt.”

“What?”

“Not now.” He said again with more edge to his voice. “I have a banquet to attend. And I am not just a bard today, but a viscount,” he pulled his mouth in distaste and Geralt not for the first time has wondered what was behind of his spite towards his family or his home exactly. “I have duties today and I want to try and enjoy this, or at least pretend, unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless my father finds a way to ruin it,” he said darkly. “Now if you excuse me,” he averted his gaze, as he turned to pull on his long boots, slipping away from Geralt's touch. “See you at the ballroom.”

He left with a bitter smile on his face, carefully pulling in the door after himself, leaving Geralt standing there confused, in _Jaskier’s_ personal quarters.

He was standing there a little lost for only a couple of minutes however, then there was a soft knock on the door and a maid entered the room with some clothes draped over her arm.

“Master Witcher? The young Viscount has sent me to give you your evening clothes.”

“My what?” He snapped, making her shiver.

“Your- your evening clothes, for the fete, sir.”

Not many times has he been called ‘sir’ in his rather long life. He inclined his head, but after looking at the trembling maid he took the clothes from her and she offered him a shy curtsey, then scrammed from the room as fast as she could.

The clothes were, well. The trousers were black and soft, while the over-shirt was a deep mulberry colour, which made his skin and hair light up. He wasn’t much for fashion, in his line of work it was not a requirement. But even he could tell that it was not a set for a sad silk trader. More like something that a nobleman would wear for his betrothal. Gods, he hoped it wasn’t anything of sort.

He took off his clothes and pulled on the new ones, feeling rather peculiar, when he found that they were fitting him perfectly, even the boots – if they were just slightly tight – they were admittedly just as comfortable as his travelling boots (if not more as it was a fact that they were stepped out exactly at Geralt’s feet’s shape, they’ve been patched up more than once and the soles became rather thin).

So he made his way down to the ballroom, locating it by following the noise that large gatherings have always made – consistent noise of gossip, sips of drinks and rustling of clothes. He walked through the entrance; a tall, open set of doors glazed along with summer sweet flowers, kept fresh by some magical help, no doubt.

As he passed people by, they spared him significantly less attention, than he was normally used to. But then he reckoned his clothes made him blend in a touch better and it took longer for people to realise who- _what_ he was, long enough that Geralt could walk away by the time the realisation hit them.

He found himself a goblet filled with rich, sweet wine and also a faraway wall where he could stand and be left alone. From there he assessed the room, letting his gaze pass through all the people there, he finally settled on the long table up front under large, painted glass windows. There was a man sitting in the middle, who wore a strict expression under grey hair and beard, on his left sat a brunette girl, with simple, but beautiful features, she looked young and unblemished, Geralt guessed she might be about sixteen. He didn’t like where this was going in the slightest. Beside the girl was a young knight. To the man’s right sat Jaskier, who looked about as happy as someone who just drank piss, beside him sat a slightly older knight.

They all looked pretty stoic, except for the bard who looked rather sick in comparison.

For a while there was the usual drinking and noblemen and women chattering about things, that Geralt could clearly hear, but did not care for the slightest. He sipped his wine alone and tried to radiate an aura that would make anyone who was brave or _stupid_ enough to talk to him turn on their heels and walk away. He found himself stealing glances towards the bard, who caught them a couple of times, standing his gaze until Geralt could no longer bear it and had to turn his head. What was he doing here really? What was this whole thing anyways? He didn’t actually bother to ask what was the celebration for, he knew that royalty and nobility enjoyed throwing balls for nothing, just for sheer pastime.

And most importantly why was Jaskier so _miserable_ , when normally he loves the court and great wine mixed with lewd women and men he can flirt with all night long?

Soon there came a cheer and encouragement for the bard to come and sing for the gathering, he gave a stilted smile, that didn’t reach his eyes and pushed away from the table. He grabbed his lute that has been by his side all along and started on a happy little cheer, that got the people lift their goblets and tankards. For someone who didn’t know the bard it might have sounded just as great and cheerful as any other time, but Geralt noticed little nuances that said otherwise; the way his movements were rigid and his tone way too levelled, when normally emotion coloured it high and low all the way through a song and how he avoided catching anyone’s eyes in the crowd. They were all signs of his discomfort.

After a handful of songs he excused himself and sagged back on his chair by the long table, where he intently stared at his full plate, but didn’t touch it.

Geralt wished he could get the bard alone, to talk to him, even though he's got no idea what he’d actually say, but watching him sulk at the table made his insides twist and his mouth taste sour, despite the sweet wine.

And here came the moment when it all went down and Geralt finally understood if not all of it, part of why Jaskier was acting as though the world has ended.

The older Viscount has emerged from his seat, demanding the crowd’s attention.

“Everyone, the time has come to make it official.”

“Father.” Jaskier hissed by his side, seemingly to no avail, but Geralt could hear the desperation in his voice.

The Viscount pressed on unbothered.

“Dear Miss Lena de Mori, the dearest niece of the Earl wishes to marry my son, the young Viscount of Lettenhove.” For this the Earl, who sat at a nearby table raised his tankard cheerfully.

Well he was half right about the betrothal. It just wasn’t his, although it wasn’t any less concerning.

Geralt growled lowly, the unemotional use of the word ‘dear’ twice would be enough indication of their relationship, but him only using the title of his own son, instead of his name has made it clear how he felt about them both. Miss Lena seemed nearly as pleased about the situation as Jaskier himself, who fixed his gaze in front of him, hands gripping tightly at the edge of the table, while she smiled in a way that made it look more like a sneer.

Geralt pushed away from the wall and walked a few paces closer, watching the events unfold.

“Father, I told you I won’t marry her.”

Jaskier’s voice was still low enough for no one else to hear but his father and thanks for his mutated hearing, Geralt.

“I won’t have you go about your way and sing your moronic songs about that monster, while my legacy fades.” The man grated through his teeth without moving his lips. Well, Geralt did not except the Viscount to like him any more than other noble man, there was no love lost between them.

“Father,” Jaskier whined getting more agitated. “Do _not_ talk about him like that.”

This conversation was mainly between the talkers and Geralt himself, as for the rest of the crowd they could not pick out a word, but stood abashed in front of the question; what must be the reason of the delay of the happy announcement.

Meanwhile Geralt prepared himself in case a fight would emerge between Jaskier and his father, or more probably his knights.

“He is what he is.” The Viscount huffed.

“You promised… you promised me you wouldn’t do this.” He pleaded weakly. “I asked you and you promised.”

Geralt walked close enough for Jaskier that if the bard would just look up, their gaze would meet immediately. Around him the people made indignant noises, but didn’t say anything to him.

“You have responsibilities and duties. You can’t avoid them for a ruffian lifestyle, you’re not a child anymore, I have tolerated enough of your nonsense.”

His voice was rising near to normal level by now.

“I might not be a child anymore, but sure as hell won’t marry one!” He hissed, then suddenly stood up and grabbed his lute. “I have come here for one reason only and that being done, I must be on my way now.” He said now loud enough for everyone to hear, he bowed his head in short and sharp movements towards his table companions. “Father, Miss Lena.”

He turned on his heels and strode out of the ballroom, no one seemed to care to stop him. Geralt took a long look at the Viscount before going after Jaskier.

He found him in his quarters packing a couple of clothes and phials in a satchel bag, completed with his weary notebooks and quills.

“Not now, Geralt.” He said, when the witcher stopped by the door.

“Tell me what happened,” he said softly.

Jaskier’s hands stopped in midmotion and he looked up at him with wet, red-rimmed eyes, nearly dry trails on his cheeks, but not crying anymore. He was never a big crier really, whining and complaining sure, but crying has not been something that Geralt knew him of. He has seen him cry before, over the decades they’ve spent together on the road, but it never lasted longer than a minute or two, unlike the feeling that brought on the tears in the first place. The salty smell mixed with the flowery scent of his oil, making Geralt’s chest tighten. He hated this situation, whatever have brought it on.

“You don’t want to talk about…” _us –_ he wanted to say, but changed his mind, not wanting to upset the bard with something that even he might not be able to explain. “Other things. But you could tell me what happened here. Or where are you planning to go for that matter.”

He huffed and wiped his sleeves over his face to clear away the tear marks.

“Fine.” He said, but then only silence followed. It was strange seeing Jaskier ready to talk, yet at a loss for words. He didn’t push it, just waited it out. Eventually the bard continued with a soft, quiet voice.

“My mother. She’d been… she’s died over the first months of winter.” He said, while absentmindedly tugging at the necklace lying on his chest. “I came for the funeral as soon as I’ve received the letter. My father, not having other male heir wants me to carry on the family’s name and restore our honour or whatever horseshit and used this opportunity to make me marry Miss Lena. I told him no right away, but he was keep talking about how I will ‘change my mind’ and 'see it’s for the better’. And he called together this banquet and I knew… but then he was so normal lately and I thought…” he sighed softly and visibly tried to wheel his thoughts back towards the story. “So I made him promise not to bring this up again, but then he invited Miss Lena and well, you saw what happened then.”

There were a lot of things, that he wanted to ask and out of all of them this might not be the right one, but it was out before Geralt could actually think it through.

“Why don’t you want to marry her?”

“Gods, Geralt, why would I? I don’t want to stay here. I don’t belong here, I don’t need a wife and an heir, that sort of noble horseshit is for my father and his high-nose assfaces of friends!” He exclaimed with widely stretched arms. “Also she’s fourteen. What would I do with her? What would she do with me?”

Fourteen then. Fuck. The Viscount was insane if he ever thought that could’ve work out. Of course marriage between the wealthy rarely relied on having the couple in the same age range, but the man must not know his own son.

And then it hit Geralt; he actually didn’t.

“I’m sorry.” He said and it was so sincere that it rendered Jaskier speechless again. He returned to the packing, tossing his old bag of coins on the top.

“Where are you heading?”

Jaskier looked at him and he could see the bard contemplating if he should tell. But then he sighed.

“To Vole.”

Geralt looked at him, trying to signal the fact, that no, it is not enough information.

“Yennefer’s got some business there, she told me to meet her in a few weeks.”

“ _Yennefer_? Are you travelling together now?”

“Something like that.” He shrugged, and Geralt raised an eyebrow.

It wasn’t a onetime thing then, what he had seen on that field.

“We are friends Geralt." The bard has always took great liberties with that word, he thought. "What do you care anyways?” He pulled the string on his bag and turned a pointed look at him. “Why are you here at all?”

“Drowners.”

For a second Jaskier’s face looked like he’d just been slapped.

“No. No, no, no. Why are you _here_?”

He didn’t actually have an answer for that. So he stayed quiet but it seemed like the wrong thing to do, because Jaskier snorted angrily.

“Of course, you don’t know. It’s not something that would worth thinking about, now is it? You’re here, because no one told you to go.”

“I-“ he put it very eloquently. “Fuck. Jaskier.”

The bard just crossed his arms over his chest, expectantly. Geralt combed his fingers through his hair. He wanted to tell the bard about the signs and the guilt that followed him through this last year, but his mouth didn’t seem to translate the message of his brain. These were not things that Geralt would normally talk about. And in all honesty there was one reason that pulled him here as soon as he heard the bard’s voice.

But before he could work out a way to answer Jaskier, the bard’s mouth dropped open slightly and his eyes widened with the realisation.

Once again he was left to wonder if he really was an open book for everyone or was it only Jaskier who flipped through the pages so effortlessly. He saw right through his expression this time as well, without him putting it into words.

“You missed me,” he said with a raspy voice, barely above a whisper. “Gods, you actually missed me.”

Geralt felt exposed, which was such a rare occurrence, that he still couldn’t possibly think about anything to say.

“I’m sorry.” The bard said and it was just not right. Why was he apologising? If anything Geralt was in the wrong sending him away the way he did. Or that he did at all. And he wanted to say as much, but as it was always with Jaskier, he poured words out of himself, like a heavy waterfall, pushing Geralt underwater, making it hard to breathe.

“I shouldn’t have left, I should’ve known you didn’t mean it… well maybe you meant it, but then again, you’re here because you missed me, so you must not hate-hate me… or you’ve just used to travelling with someone, but you could have find another companion easily, well not easily given to the suspicion that surrounds witchers, plus your manners are really not the best, and take this with my best intention, but a smile here and a nice word there wouldn’t harm, not to mention-“

“Yes” he cut in, pushing the word through his clenched teeth, and before the bard could start rambling again, he continued. “I missed you. And it isn’t your fault. I sent you away, I was wrong.”

Jaskier was gaping at him, which could have been a very amusing sight in any other circumstance.

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly and the bard’s expression softened into a gentle smile. He stepped closer and lightly placed his palm on the witcher’s cheek.

“Took you long enough.” He whispered and Geralt leaned in, touching his forehead to Jaskier’s.

They stayed like that for a few moments, before Jaskier pulled away. “We must be going. Before my father decides that he’ll marry me to sweet Miss Lena with force… Oh.”

He looked up at Geralt as he lifted his bag over his shoulder. “I mean, only if you want to come with me. I suppose there might be a few available contracts in Vole, I hear they’ve got quite the problem with disappearing people.”

“I suppose,” was all Geralt said and grabbed his armor and clothes from the bard’s dresser.

Jaskier gifted him with another of those gentle smiles, that he missed so much.

He knew he couldn’t make promises – not out loud anyways – but he wanted to prove that the bard was doing the right thing by letting him accompany him again.

He rebelled against Destiny oh so long, and he still didn’t like the idea of having a power, that ruled his life, without his permission, but despite all the tough situations it has created, it gifted him with connections, he would never want to severe. It led him back to Jaskier and that alone was enough for Geralt to find peace with his Destiny, only if temporarily.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it to the end; I hope you enjoyed it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.  
> Now I know I left some questions unanswered and to be entirely honest I'm thinking about writing one or two more chapters, that would elaborate on Jaskier's background story (hint: it’s a nonhuman!Jaskier version), give us some Yennefer and also probably make the rating jump up. We'll see.  
> As you all know kudos and comments are love and power.  
> All of you stay well and wash your hands!


End file.
